


The Promise

by dansunedisco



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Childhood Friends, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Growing Up, Growing Up Together, Heartache, High School, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21554515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: “Bucky,” he says, squashing his grin into the most serious look he can muster. The summer is almost over and although he and Bucky already promised to stay friends, he has to know -- he has to know if they’ll be friends forever. He sticks his pinky finger up. “Friends forever?”And Bucky, who’s always smiling no matter what, gets a serious look on his face and wraps his pinky finger around Steve’s. “Forever,” he swears.It’s a solemn vow, and one they keep for the next five years.Or: best friends grow up, grow apart, and grow to realize they've loved each other all along.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 15
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorkaitlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/gifts).



> wrote this forever ago for kaitlyn 5ever ago and just finished it.

“Bucky,” he says, squashing his grin into the most serious look he can muster. The summer is almost over and although he and Bucky already promised to stay friends, he has to know -- he _has_ to know if they’ll be friends forever. He sticks his pinky finger up. “Friends forever?”

And Bucky, who’s always smiling no matter what, gets a serious look on his face and wraps his pinky finger around Steve’s. “Forever,” he swears.

It’s a solemn vow, and one they keep for the next five years.

-

Steve meets Bucky when he’s eight and Bucky’s nine.

The Barneses roll into town in the biggest U-haul Steve’s ever seen on one of the hottest days of June. Steve’s mom is dozing on the couch where she sometimes lies down after a tough evening double instead of her own bedroom when Steve tears down the stairs as fast as his tiny legs can take him after he spots the truck sputtering down their cul-de-sac followed by a shiny white mini-van.

For the first time since school let out, Steve’s _excited._ There could be a new kid in that moving caravan. Someone new. Someone who doesn’t know that he can’t play like the rest of the kids on the block yet, and if he gets to them _early_ , he might be able to secure himself a friend for the summer. It’d be the first time _ever_. All he needs is permission to cross the street.

“Mom,” he whispers, tucking his chin over the back of the couch. He has to press up onto his tiptoes to make it. He feels a little bad about waking her up, but he knows a once in a lifetime opportunity is slipping between his fingers with every passing second, and she’ll understand. He won’t have been the only neighborhood kid on the lookout for fresh meat. “ _Mooom_.”

Sarah cracks her eyes open and looks around the room before her gaze flicks up to meet Steve’s imploring face; the one she calls his puppy dog look. “Steve?” she asks, a tinge of confusion in her voice, “what time is it?”

“Lunchtime.”

She laughs. “Is that a hint?”

He bounces on his feet, practically bursting with frantic energy. “I’m not hungry, I promise,” he says in a rush, “but there’s a new family moving in across from us and I’m pretty sure they have a kid my age. Can I go? Please, Ma? Please please please?”

She sits up. Her scrubs are wrinkled and her hospital badge is twisted around her neck. “Well… I’m up, so why not?”

After what feels like forever and enduring the torture of a proper hair-combing, they walk across Pine Street. There’s two bicycles in the yard: white with sparkling, multi-colored tassels; the other a dark, forest green and checkered handlebars. Neither of them have training wheels, both big enough for older kids. The sight of them makes Steve grin. _Two kids_. He could have _two friends_. He tugs his hand free from his mom -- who goes to talk to the adults shuttling boxes from the moving van -- and leaves in search.

He finds a brown-haired boy dousing a brown-haired girl with a green garden hose in the side-yard. They’re wearing bathing suits, their legs flecked with spots of dirt and dried-up grass, and the girl shrieks with laughter, “It’s cold! It’s _cold!_ ”

The boy cackles and sticks his thumb over the mouth of the hose. The water sprays faster and stronger, and Steve feels droplets of water rain down on his hair and face even from as far away as he is. He’s in awe. 

The girl notices Steve then, and her laughter dries up. The boy spins around and blasts her with the hose again, but quickly sees Steve too. He drops the hose and, for a second, Steve thinks he’s going to get pummeled -- for interrupting their fun, or spying on them, maybe. Instead, the kid jogs over to Steve with a smile. He’s missing his front tooth, and he sticks his hand out for a handshake like he’s an adult or something. “I’m Bucky,” he says, “and that’s my sister, Becky.”

“I’m Steve,” Steve replies, shaking Bucky’s hand and feeling very grown up. “My mom’s talking to your… parents, I think.”

“Cool. You wanna play with us?”

Steve looks down at his clothes. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Not something you could wear through a sprinkler without looking like a total dope, but he really, really wants to play. “Okay,” he says. He tugs his shirt over his head and ducks into the yard.

They take turns spraying each other, and neither Bucky nor Becky mind when Steve needs to take a break whenever it’s his turn to run from the water monster. They play for a long time, until Steve’s toes and fingers are all pruned up, and he learns all kinds of things: how to make the water arc like Bucky made it, how to kink the hose and trick people into looking down the hole. It’s the best fun he’s had in _forever_.

Eventually, Steve’s mom and Bucky and Becky’s parents find them. Bucky gets scolded by his parents because Steve’s clothes are sopping wet, and Steve thinks, _That’s it, that’s the end of my summer friends,_ but Bucky gives Steve a silly, cross-eyed face when his parents aren’t looking, and he knows right then that they’re going to be okay.

The next day, Bucky and Becky come over. His mom’s not home, Steve explains, when they ring the doorbell and ask if he wants to play. He’s supposed to stay inside just in case Mrs. Smith calls to check up on him, but he’s easily persuaded into his front yard.

“Leave the door open and the phone on the sill,” Bucky says, “that way, if it rings, we can hear it and you won’t get in trouble.”

It’s the best idea ever, and Steve quickly forgets his guilt as he pretends to be a deadly kraken to Bucky’s seafaring pirate and Becky’s cantankerous parrot princess. 

“I don’t want to be a parrot,” she laments, as Bucky wraps a lime-green feather boa around her neck, “why can’t _Steve_ be your sidekick?”

“Because you’re younger than Steve, and I said so,” Bucky says, flipping an impressive eyepatch over his left eye. A white skull and crossbone is on it, and he promised Steve he’d let him wear it after they’re done playing pretend.

Becky’s response is to give a dejected, half-hearted squawk.

In the end, Steve offers to switch roles with Becky. The boa itches his neck the entire time they play, but he doesn’t mind so much -- the kraken is supposed to sit in the dirt anyway, and Steve would rather be chasing after Bucky.

They play all afternoon, and when Bucky’s mom, Winnie, calls them back home for dinner, she asks Steve over, but he declines.

“You can call your mom and let her know where you’ll be,” Bucky says, but Steve’s not sure he wants to. They’ve only been friends for one and a half days, and he doesn’t want to jinx his good luck. It’s only a matter of time before Bucky’s found out by the other kids in the neighborhood, but Steve also doesn’t want to wear out his welcome.

But whatever worry Steve has quickly vanishes, because every morning Bucky and Becky end up on his porch with a smile and an ever-rotating line of toys: footballs, soccer balls, baseballs, bats and Nerf guns and water balloons. He’s always invited over for dinner when the sun starts to go down and the curb lights turn on, and, eventually, he’s allowed to spend the night.

“This is my first sleepover _ever_ ,” he tells Bucky that first time. 

“Why’s that?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s heard of kids feeling weird or scared, unable to stay the whole night because they don't want to be anywhere but their bed. With his newly bought sleeping bag, spread out next to Bucky’s in his room, it doesn't bother him at all. “I guess I’ve just never been asked.”

Bucky hums and flips a page of his comic. He has a flashlight stuck between his chest and his pillow, the light beaming at the newest issue of Batman. “That’s weird,” he says. “I bet we can convince my mom to let you stay over on school nights next year.”

Steve smiles up at the ceiling. It’s covered in glow-in-the-dark stars and planets because Bucky’s going to be an astronaut when he grows up and pilot the Mars missions. Steve never really cared about space beyond thinking it’s kind of neat, but he knows if anyone’s going to rocket to Mars, it’s Bucky Barnes.

After that, he and Bucky become inseparable. At least, that’s what his mom and Mrs. Barnes says happens. Steve doesn’t much care for labels, except that he has a _best friend_ now, who doesn’t seem to care that sometimes Steve can’t go play outside because his allergies mess with his asthma or his iron deficiency makes him too tired to play catch. When it happens, Bucky just plops down onto Steve’s bed and they watch movies on Steve’s fuzzy old TV until he feels better.

It’s one such day that Bucky asks where Steve’s dad is because he’s never seen him around, and Steve has to explain that his dad died years ago. He was three when it happened, and there's a picture of him in his Army uniform on the mantle.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, maybe imagining his life without his dad in it.

There isn’t much for Steve to miss, but sometimes he imagines what it would be like to have someone like Mr. Barnes around for him. Either way, he doesn't feel mad at Bucky for asking. Some of the other kids used to make fun of him for not having a dad, so Bucky’s genuine curiosity is appreciated, if anything. “It’s okay. I didn’t really know him,” Steve says mildly, and pulls up another movie in his queue. They watch movies for the rest of the day.

-

They stay friends through the summer, and through the school year, which rockets by. Steve grows. Bucky grows taller. Steve starts to paint, and Bucky joins the baseball team. 

Every now and then, Steve thinks he's going to be left behind; the first summer together was just the two of them and Becky, but the following school year brought Bucky more friends than Steve’s ever had. He's easy to talk to, and friendly. Friendly to anyone who stays nice to Steve, that is, and after a fight that ended with a split lip and a week’s worth of detention, most of the kids do.

They fall into a routine. Steve goes to all of Bucky’s games, when he can, and they toss balls back and forth in the Barnes’ yard afterwards, when Steve’s up to it. They study together, do their homework together, and before long, Bucky’s as much Sarah’s kid as Steve is Winnie’s and George’s. It's the kind of friendship Steve’s always wanted for himself, the kind he always worried he never would have. Bucky, for his part, never seems to worry about losing Steve. He’s confident in a way that makes Steve a little jealous sometimes, but it’s too good being friends with Bucky Barnes to stay jealous for long. They're friends, and that's that, in his eyes.

Another year goes by, and that next summer, Winnie and George invite Steve to tag along with Bucky and Becky’s his trip to see their grandparents.

“It’d be one whole week,” Bucky enthuses, as their parents talk the potential trip over in the living room. “They have tons of animals, and Grandpa said I’m old enough to work the combine. It’ll be so cool!”

The issue, of course, ends up being Steve’s health problems. He has lots of ailments and, although they have good health insurance on account of Sarah’s job at the hospital, the Barnes farm is in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, without a hospital nearby. That fact puts a kibosh on the whole idea.

“I’m sorry, baby, I really am,” Sarah says later that night. She brushes Steve’s bangs up from his forehead and leans down to give him a solid, warm kiss on his cheek. “I really wish you could go. Maybe when you’re older.”

“I’ll still be sick when I’m older,” he says. The heat of disappointment ran out of him around dinner, but he’s still sad about it. A part of him knew it would be a long shot to get to go in the first place, but all of Bucky’s talk really got him excited at the prospect.

A few weeks later, the time comes for Bucky’s big trip to Indiana. The two of them say their goodbyes the night before Bucky’s supposed to leave, and then the next morning too. It’s tearful and dramatic, and they promise to talk every night on the phone.

“He’ll be back in seven days,” his mom says, when Steve sits down on the curb sadly after the Barnes’ mini-van drives away. Steve knows this -- he’s marked the days on the calendar he won at the book fair in the spring -- but it still feels like forever.

Still, it turns out just fine. Bucky calls every night after dinner like promised. He even brings the phone outside to let Steve hear the cicadas and Sprocket the farm cat chirp. Steve doesn’t have much to tell Bucky except for stuff he already knows. He hasn’t done much without Bucky around anyway, so he instead tells him about all the new comics he’s read in his absence.

“I wish you were here,” Bucky says, each night before they hang up. Steve just says, “Me too.”

Bucky comes back after seven long days, and life moves on. They go out to the movies, and play in the sun all day long -- except for a few times when Steve just can’t, so they move his nebulizer to the living room and watch cartoons -- and share secrets. The best day, Steve thinks, is when they sneak out into the woods to swear up a storm. He learns three more bad words from Bucky, who learned all about it from the guys on the farm.

“There's shit and crap,” Bucky says, “and ‘damn’ counts, I think. But the worst one is…”

Steve leans in. “Is?”

“The worst one is fuck,” Bucky whispers, glancing over his shoulder like the very hand of God is going to slam down on him for speaking it aloud.

It’s the best summer ever, and not for the first time, Steve’s really glad he saw that mini-van that first day.

It’s not to say that all is well, though. The neighborhood kids who noticed Bucky and Becky that first summer still feel slighted and some of the meaner kids have a problem with them playing with Steve, who’s never liked bullies in the first place, and every now and again he finds himself in a real and proper fight. He tries to hide it from Bucky, but Steve learns real quick that it’s easier to hide things from the FBI than Bucky Barnes.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Bucky asks, the first time he has to pick Steve off the ground after kicking Bobby Delaney square in the butt and sending him on his way. Steve isn’t even sure _how_ Bucky knew where he was, or how he ended up in the park when he was supposed to be watching Becky after school.

Steve shrugs instead; some questions are best left unanswered. “Just needed a little wake me up.”

-

It’s the summer going into high school that changes everything.

Every summer, Bucky goes away for a week. Usually to his grandparents’ farm in Indiana; sometimes other family vacations the Barneses go on that Steve’s always invited to but can’t ever go. But this summer…

Steve frowns. “Baseball camp?”

Bucky tosses his lucky ball up in the air; it’s the one he got signed by his favorite player when his dad took him to Boston a summer back. He’s lying in Steve’s twin bed, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, my dad signed me up,” he says nonchalantly, in the way Steve’s come to realize is almost entirely fake. For all that Bucky likes to play up an air of coolness, when he cares, he _cares._ “It’s just for a couple weeks, and I’ll be back for the rest of the summer. We can go to the lake.”

“And go fishing,” Steve deadpans, “because we just love to go fishing.”

Bucky grins, and it’s the first real one since he showed up on Steve’s porch with the dreadful news that his one week Steve sabbatical will be a whole month. “Yup.”

“It’ll be fine, I guess,” he says, rolling the idea around. “Must’ve been that your dad finally heard I needed a break from you!”

“Must’ve been,” Bucky laughs, and the weird tension between them breaks. They put the ball away and they play video games.

The month Steve has without Bucky is the worst one he can ever remember. Before, when none of the kids wanted to play with him on principle, it wasn’t that bad. He knew where he stood: the sick kid that didn’t let anyone get pushed around. But since Bucky came into his life, he’s always had someone by his side. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, now that he’s just Steve again.

Becky grew out of playing with him ages ago, so that’s out, though she does break one evening and invite him to hang when it’s clear both of them are missing her brother something fierce.

Otherwise, he finds ways to entertain himself. He draws and reads, and keeps a tally of things he wants to tell Bucky when he gets back from camp. The list gets long; long enough that he has to start writing it all down.

One Friday, he climbs the hill behind the drive-in theater and makes a spot under the elm tree. Months ago Bucky showed him a trick on how to tune his walkman into the FM station the theater uses, and tonight he listens to Jurassic Park while he sketches. He doesn’t really know what dinosaurs are supposed to look like, but he tries to illustrate what he hears: a jeep blazing through an imaginary park; a huge, hulking T-rex stomping through a rainy forest. He's a pretty good artist, so says his teachers, but Bucky’s the one with the fancy imagination and dreams of the impossible. _I miss you, Buck_ , he scribbles into the margins of his drawing, and sighs, feeling more alone than ever before.

Bucky comes back on a Saturday, and the moment Steve puts eyes on him, he knows something’s changed. Not only does he look different -- he’s tanner, taller, _and_ better-looking -- he acts differently, too. Before, they would’ve greeted each other with a hug. Today, Bucky reaches his fist out for a casual bump. The weird distance is what keeps Steve from blurting out how much he missed him, and he crumples his list up when he gets back to his room.

They’ll be going to high school now, Steve thinks, after this summer. It's time for them to grow up. So he pulls back and tries not to notice how Bucky pulls back, too. Bucky gets a cellphone and spends half his time with Steve texting someone else. Steve’s mom won't let him get one -- not until he's in high school or gets a job to pay for it, or both -- so he can't do much but sigh and pretend like Bucky’s present even when he's sitting right next to the guy and they haven’t spoken a word.

Then, one evening, he asks if Bucky wants to come over to play some Nintendo 64. It's an old console, but the games are still fun to play. He has Mortal Kombat and Banjo Kazooie and even Mario Kart. But Bucky coughs over the phone and begs off being sick and won't let Steve come over. And Steve’s not dumb. He knows when Bucky’s faking, and when he sees Bucky sneaking out his window to join a group of his new baseball buddies later that night, his suspicions are confirmed. He stands by his window, waiting and waiting for Bucky to turn around and look up his way -- to feel bad for lying, to know he’s been caught in the act -- but he never does, and that's what stings Steve the most.

He ignores Bucky’s phone calls the next day and hides up in his room when the doorbell rings. Finally, he hears scuttling on the pipe outside his window, and the creak of his window being pushed up. He forgot to lock the latch and shut his blinds -- if Bucky stands by the curb, he can see right in his room. They have almost a direct line of sight into each other’s bedrooms too; they learned morse code and sent each other messages with flashlights all last summer, when it was Becky’s turn to have a sleepover.

“Steve,” Bucky grins, “you took your hearing aid out?”

“You know that's not how it works,” he snaps, peeved out of his mind. Suddenly, he's seething. It's not like he and Bucky never argue. They snap at each other when they’re annoying each other, and sometimes come to scuffles, but this -- what he feels now is boiling hot anger. “Why are you here?”

Bucky climbs through the window. “What's crawled up your butt? I'm here because we said we’d hang out tonight.”

“You were sick yesterday… and now you're magically better.” Fess up, he wants to say. Tell me you lied. But Bucky just shrugs and mumbles something about a stomach bug that must've run its course. And that's the last straw. Steve pushes up from his chair and balls his fists up. “I saw you last night.”

Bucky pales, his mouth dropping open.

“Don't play dumb. You know I can see straight into your window from here. Is that why you did it? So I’d take the hint and finally leave you alone?”

“Steve -- we were…” he trails off.

He stays silent, so Steve goes over to the window and throws it back up. It hits the window jamb with a loud smack. “Go home,” he says, angry and hurt that his best friend can't even tell him why he lied. He's not mad at being left behind; not really. It was only a matter of time before they found other friends -- they really weren't so alike, the two of them.

But instead of leaving, Bucky gets in Steve’s face. “What's the big deal, huh? We were gonna go drink in the park. You wouldn't’ve came anyway!”

“You didn't _ask._ I would’ve gone with you!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re just my little _lapdog_ , aren’t you?”

“Shut _up!_ ” He pushes at Bucky’s chest, and Bucky nudges him back. Steve shoves, and Bucky does, too. They end up wrestling, grappling on the ground, and Steve gasps his way into a mild asthma attack that has Bucky pulling off of him and jamming an inhaler into his sweaty hand. He takes two puffs and when the room settles, Bucky’s sitting in his computer chair with a bloody lip.

“Shit, Steve…” Bucky wipes his mouth. “I’m… I’m real sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”

“Too bad,” Steve wheezes back, “because I did.”

They share a tentative smile; a truce.

Still, something frosts over that night between them, and they stop spending every day, every break in school, together. Steve quits going to Bucky’s baseball games -- he figures he already has friends there, he doesn’t need a cheerleader in the stands -- and Bucky doesn't meet him atop the drive-in hill on Friday nights like he used to.

Before long, Bucky and Steve’s table becomes Steve’s only, and Bucky joins his other friends across the quad. Then they graduate to high school, and sometimes it's almost like they never knew one another at all. Almost like Steve didn't know every single thing about Bucky Barnes. Almost like they promised forever, and then forgot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes. 
> 
> Steve grows up, and Bucky's gravity is as strong as ever.

Steve meets Peggy Carter in his freshman year. She tells him she goes to the prep school across town, has a cool accent like in the period dramas him and his mom watch, and she does not fuck around.

She tells him she's trying to get a pick-up lacrosse team together, and shoves a stick in his hands before he can protest. He has asthma, he can't play -- but she just fixes him with a look that brooks no further argument, and he goes to the park she names the next Saturday. When he arrives, wearing what he thinks is appropriate lacrosse gear, there's already a bunch of kids that look his age milling about.

Peggy descends from the bleachers, her no-nonsense boots clomping down the metal pews, and introduces him to everyone. There’s Jimmy Morita, Jacques Dernier (”but you can just call him Frenchy”), Dum Dum Dugan, Gabe Jones, Monty Falsworth, and finally, “my sister, Sharon.”

“Dum Dum?” is the only thing Steve can say. There's a whole lot more nicknames -- people, really -- than he's used to. He’s more overwhelmed than shy.

“Yeah, because he's d-u-m dumb. Dum Dum,” Morita says. “Get it?”

Dum Dum -- ”you can call me Dugan if you want” -- just shrugs good-naturedly.

“We're calling ourselves the Howlies,” Sharon declares, twisting the stick in her hands, and Peggy beams like a proud sister.

It turns out that Steve is actually pretty good at lacrosse. He's not very strong or very fast, but he's got a decent throwing arm and he has good aim with the stick, too. And he's not afraid of getting checked either. Years and years of being knocked around by other kids had given him a rough and tumble outlook on life, even if his smaller-than-most body says he shouldn’t.

He plays pick-up games with the Howlies on the weekends, as much as he can between studying and spending time with his mom, and it’s not long before the team starts to hang out together outside of sports too.

Soon enough, he's hanging out with the Howlies all the time; they have a group chat (Steve finally got the cellphone he wanted), and he's introduced to Dungeons & Dragons. He becomes Spellcaster Steve, though he's officially marked down as ‘Steve the Grey Druid’ in the campaign book, because he pissed the group off with a stubbornness to blast his way out of trouble, even if the die calls for an escape. They’re the strangest bunch of people and by all accounts shouldn’t get along -- but they do.

Thanks to Peggy and the Howlies, Steve finds his place in the landscape again. His mom stops worrying about his lack of friends, and how their phone never rang like it used to -- not when Bucky was around. And it’s not like Steve doesn’t think about Bucky. Sometimes he stares out his bedroom window and into the tiny square of light that used to be almost as familiar as his own: Bucky’s room. _Does he still have the planet stickers on the ceiling?_ he wonders. Does he still want to be an astronaut? Sometimes he imagines walking over to the Barneses and knocking on the door and seeing if they might be friends again. How they fell out was so stupid, anyway; jealousy at not being invited out, over a dumb lie. It wasn't a big deal, like Bucky said, but Steve let it come between them anyway. He didn't want to drink, but he would've come out. He would've tried.

Tonight, he's lying in bed when he hears the sound of familiar laughter outside. Curiosity gets the better of him eventually, and he scoots over to peek outside. Bucky’s sitting on his porch with -- he squints -- Natasha Romanoff. They're talking, faces close, and his stomach seizes up without really knowing why. He shuts the window and flicks the blinds closed, but every now and then he can still hear them talking, laughing.

It's later in the night, when he can't sleep, that he again goes to the window. He hesitates, but he grabs the flashlight he keeps in his drawer, an old habit, and points it across the street before he can second guess himself. He presses the button -- click, click click -- and waits and waits, but there's no response. He wasn't expecting one, but he's disappointed all the same.

Freshman year passes. He gets good grades and doesn't lose the Howlies and kisses Peggy the first time he takes her to overlook point. She blows out a breath and says, “About bloody time” right after, but it's still the most romantic moment of his entire life.

He and Peggy don’t end up dating for long. Whatever job her parents have doesn’t require them to stay in the States past the school year. Knowing the end is coming means they can prepare, but it’s bittersweet when it comes all the same.

“We’ll stay in touch,” she says, the night before she’s supposed to fly back to London, and not for a single second does he doubt her words.

Sophomore year is much of the same -- except it brings with it a new student named Sam Wilson. He and Steve end up in the same gym class, and they spend most of it in a friendly match of one-upmanship. They become quick friends, and the Howlies take to Sam just as fast.

“You’re all a bunch of nerds,” Sam declares his first night of D&D, but by the end of the campaign he’s as into it as anybody. Turned out Sam Wilson is the biggest nerd of them all.

Before Steve knows it, that year’s gone too, and junior year looms in the distance, as does college, and the strange, adult world that lies beyond.

Steve used to think about college a lot, back before he realized how hard his mom has to work to make ends meet. The benefits they received after his dad died dried up a long time ago, and their only saving grace is that the insurance paid for most of the house. The rest went to Steve’s medical bills -- emergency room visits got expensive, after so many -- and so as soon as he can work, Steve applies to as many places that’ll take a borderline asthmatic teenager.

He spends most of his summer before junior year busing tables at Isidor’s, hanging with his friends, and procrastinating over his summer reading. It’s a quiet almost-three months, and he’s happy. Before long, he’s waking up early to get his class schedule and jumping headfirst into another year.

-

Steve’s cleaning up during the lunch period when he hears muted cursing from the darkroom. The darkroom is smack dab in between the larger art room and the photography classroom, and students that aren’t TAs usually aren’t allowed in without teacher supervision. He knows Ms. Karavias left for lunch, and that he’s the only TA that likes to spend time at lunch doing prep-work, so he decides to investigate.

He sneaks in through the door, swings the black door around and opens the opposite door into the red room. He likes photography, but he’s never quite gotten used to the eeriness of the darkroom and the strangely hellish cast of the light. He finds the irate student soon enough, and he almost gasps when he realizes who it is: Bucky Barnes.

“Um, hey--” he starts, and takes a halting step back when Bucky twists around with a surprised yelp. He holds his hands up; _just me._ “Sorry, I just -- I heard you swearing up a storm?”

Bucky’s mouth drops into a frown, and Steve thinks he’s upset with _him_ until Bucky points to the piece of photography paper swirling around in the stopper tub. “The culprit,” he says. “I am absolute _shit_ at this.”

“Can’t be that bad,” he reasons; he’s seen people over-develop and under-develop, but what he pulls out from the tub is nonsensical blobs of black and white, and he tilts his head this way and that way, trying to see _what_ exactly Bucky had meant to photograph. “Um. Is this--”

“It’s supposed to be a still life,” Bucky deadpans. “My mom’s potted plant that refuses to die.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and hisses out a frustrated breath. “I’m gonna fail this class.”

Steve opens his mouth, but then thinks better of bullshitting Bucky with a platitude. While Ms. K is known for being fair, she also requires her students to grasp the basics of aperture and exposures, none of which, from what Steve can see from the negatives Bucky’s working with, he currently has. “D’you mind?” he asks, and Bucky shrugs like _this can’t get any worse,_ so he skims through the two rolls of negatives Bucky brought into the darkroom with him. He finds a shot he thinks might work for this week’s assignment, and tells Bucky to cut that one out of the grouping.

For the first time since Steve’s known him, and then not known him, Bucky looks completely out of his depth. “This one?”

“It’s not -- it’s not _great_ , but if you darken the backdrop a little, you can pass it off as an artistic shot…”

“Ms. K likes that shit...”

“Yeah, yeah, exactly.” 

They stand around awkwardly, but the weird spell is broken by the chime of the five-minute bell. Bucky explains that photography is his next class anyway, and Steve takes his leave out the black door. He’s halfway inside the turnstile when Bucky calls out with a tentative, “Hey, thanks, man. For helping me out.”

His stomach flutters, and he tries to give Bucky a normal smile. Like he didn’t used to think about Bucky all the time, hoping and praying for a private moment alone, just like this one, to drop into his unlucky lap. “You’re welcome, Bucky.”

Bucky cracks a smile back, and, for a moment, it feels like they’re in their old treehouse; just the two of them and all their hushed secrets. “Do you know I go by James now?”

It’s like getting sprayed with cold water. “Oh,” he says, and realizes he knew that fact. Bucky hasn’t gone by Bucky since freshman year, not since he dated Natasha Romanoff and she made everyone call him James because she refused to go by his nickname. He flushes, feeling weirdly embarrassed at hinting at their failed childhood friendship, and angry, too. Angry, because it’s not like _James_ was ever around to tell Steve anything about himself, and now here he is, smiling like it’s so funny: remember when we were friends? He bristles, and Bucky’s smile slips away. “Sorry,” Steve says, and leaves the darkroom for good.

He stews in his bitterness for half of the next period, until he realizes he’s scaring the freshmen with his grouchiness, and then spends it working on his end of year project. He’s still in the planning stages, but he wants it to be good. According to Mrs. K, he already has a decent spread for his portfolio, but he knows there’s no harm in going big. There’s a local art fair that’s supposed to give away scholarship money to the top three submissions -- it’s in a month’s time, so he turns his focus to completing the painting he had planned for that.

He gets lost in sketching in his notepad for the rest of the hour, and needs a gentle nudge from his teacher at the end of the period before he scrambles all his work into his backpack and jets off to his next class. 

He sees Bucky walking across the quad then. He’s sure they’ve passed each other hundreds of times before, but this time, Bucky sees him too and jerks his chin up like he’s seen most of the jocks do: _Hey, what’s up._ Steve gives him a quick nod in return.

After that, he sees Bucky everywhere he goes. Lunch, across the quad, ruffling his hair and throwing his head back with a laugh; tucking his arm around Natasha’s shoulders -- are they dating again? -- and bumping fists with his friends.

“You alright?” Sam asks, and Steve realizes he’s been quiet for most of the lunch break. He might not always be yammering on, but he usually engages. Today, he’s been lost in nostalgia.

“Yeah, it’s just...” He shrugs. He hasn’t really told anyone about him and Bucky. It’s not like he’s embarrassed, except for maybe a little. Breaking up with a friend because they were just better than you all around (looks, athletics, all the things that matter) sucks. Steve might not have a lot going for him, but he’s got his pride. “Just tired, I guess.”

Sam nods, and changes the subject.

-

At the end of the day, he’s walking home when he hears a car slow, and then come to a gentle roll right next to him. His stomach plummets. He hasn’t been shoved in a locker since his growth spurt, but it’s not like he’s forgotten. He plucks his earbuds out and gathers his expression into his best _fuck off_ look, ready to tell whoever it is well and truly off.

It’s only Bucky, though. “Need a ride?” he asks.

 _Why not?_ Steve thinks. The walk home is long, and it’s hot out. He hitches his backpack up on his shoulder, and shuffles over to Bucky’s car, now stopped. He gets in. As soon as he’s buckled, Bucky starts to drive.

Steve thinks about their earlier conversation in the darkroom, thinks about maybe bringing up Bucky’s photography -- maybe even offering to help him out -- but he can't bring himself to speak. Bucky, for his part, doesn't do much but give him a polite smile. The silence between them stretches out all the way until they turn onto their cross street. Bucky rolls to a stop at Steve’s, even though Steve can easily walk from the Barneses to his place.

“Thanks,” he says perfunctorily, and gets out. He hears Bucky’s _you’re welcome_ , and the roll of tires on asphalt.

The drapes in the kitchen window flicker as he walks up the steps, and he knows he’s been caught by his mother. He considers passing her to ignore the Bucky-shaped elephant in the room, but thinks better of it. She’ll ask eventually, and it’s better if he heads her off from the jump.

“Hey, Ma,” he greets. He sets his backpack onto the kitchen floor. “And before you say anything… it’s not a big deal. Bucky -- _James_ \-- gave me a ride home. It’s nothing to write home about, okay?”

“Okay, baby, whatever you say,” she replies, and kisses him on the temple and ruffles his hair. That’s when he realizes she’s in her scrubs, and at his confused looked she explains: “Marcy called in sick. I know we were supposed to have dinner tonight, but--”

“It’s okay,” he says, already used to his mother’s saint-like nature and her inability to tell a fellow nurse ‘no’. “Just -- if you’re too tired coming home...”

She gives him a small smile. “I’ll pull over for a nap.”

“Or you can call me, and I’ll drive you back.”

“What, with you and your bicycle?”

“I got two legs and a heartbeat. The hospital ain’t that far.”

“Alright, alright. Be good, baby, and call me if you need anything. Dinner’s in the fridge.”

After she leaves, Steve goes to his room and starts on his homework. It’s like pulling teeth. His thoughts constantly loop back to Bucky -- or _James,_ whatever -- and the darkroom, and the car ride home. It’s hard not to think about him, really, because his work desk is pushed right up against the window that faces Bucky’s. _God, it’s like you’re obsessed._ He drops his pencil with a sigh.

 _Stop fixating_ , he tells himself, and allows himself one good glance across the street. His stomach plummets when he sees Bucky looking right back at him. He waves awkwardly, and Bucky waves back. Then, Bucky holds up his index finger -- _wait one --_ and disappears out of view. He pops back a moment later, and in his hand is a flashlight. Steve sees him smack the light against his palm, and then he turns the face towards the window. Three lights blink: short, short, short.

“Treehouse,” Steve says aloud. Bucky’s using their childhood flashlight code. The realization makes his heart feel like it’s going to burst. He opens his drawer -- the same one he’s kept his light in over the years. He turns it towards the window and messages back: long, long, short.

_Meet tonight?_

Bucky grins. Another flash. _Okay._

The sun sets, and Steve waits another hour before slipping out of his house and jogging across the street. The Barnes’ fence is unlatched. A tiny stick is wedged into the device, an old trick he showed Bucky to signal that the way was clear and free of nosy parents and younger sisters. Steve grins so hard his face hurts. All his petty anger from the darkroom is temporarily washed away in remembering the good times he and Bucky shared, and he slips into the backyard, excited for what might greet him.

The treehouse is just as he remembered it, if significantly smaller than before. He climbs up the rungs, more than a little impressed with how well they held up over the years. When he gets to the lip, he has to shimmy himself up over the ledge, and then he’s hauled the rest of the way by Bucky.

He sits upright. The treehouse is cramped. When Bucky’s dad first built the thing, it had felt huge; cavernous, safe, able to contain months and months of secrets, comic books, and sleepovers. Now, with the two of them inside, it feels tiny. His knees are bumping against Bucky’s, his sleep pants sliding rough against the denim jeans Bucky’s wearing, and they’re _close_. He could lean right over and he’d be in serious personal bubble violation territory.

“I remember it being bigger,” he blurts out, and Bucky grins back at him, clearly pleased.

“You’re a lot bigger. We both are, I guess.” A beat. Then, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. The treehouse used to be _their_ place. Glancing around, he realizes it’s mostly remained unchanged, too. He scrubs his index finger on the gouged-out wood that spells out SR + BB in crooked, uneven lines. He almost sliced his thumb clean open trying to get the letters into the wood -- they must’ve been, say, twelve -- before Bucky took over and finished the job. Coming back here… though it’s only been a few short years since he called Bucky Barnes his best friend, it feels like an entire lifetime had passed between them, but not here. Not in the one place in the entire world they called theirs. “I already finished my homework,” he lies, “and you called me.”

“This is weird,” Bucky laughs. “In a good way? I don’t know. I guess I just thought we’d crack a comic open and read like we used to up here, but…”

“Can we even do that anymore,” Steve fills in, easily picking up Bucky’s thoughts. It’s not like they ended on _bad_ terms; they just became bad because they never took the time to reconnect or work out whatever the hell it was that came between them. And, with a start, he realizes he never once considered Bucky’s take on the whole thing. Did he wait for days and weeks for Steve to approach him, until he gave up? Moved on to other friends? Did he miss Steve, too?

Bucky leans back. “Can we?”

They can, and they do. That night, they shuffle around the treehouse so they fit and unroll the musty sleeping bags that have probably been there since middle school for floor padding. Bucky pulls out a box of their old comics, and they crack the dried-wet pages open of an issue each and read; after one, they go for another, and another, until it’s well past midnight and they both stop to grin at each other like they’re crazy. It’s a school night. The air is cool, but the space between them is charged with something Steve can’t place; an electric buzz that is one part exhaustion, one part excitement that can’t last.

“I should go,” Steve says finally. He’s yawned four times in the span of just about the same number of minutes, and he really needs to head home and sleep just in case his mom calls and needs a lift.

“Sure, yeah. It’s late,” Bucky replies, like he’s surprised or maybe disappointed. “I can give you a ride tomorrow morning? To school.”

“I can walk.”

“I don’t mind. Just come over if you want a lift. Okay?”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's hard to pick up where you left off.
> 
> And sometimes it's not.

He takes Bucky up on the offer the next morning. They part ways in the parking lot after a ride spent in groggy silence, and he has to endure mild ribbing from the Howlies and Sam because he’s walked to school for as long as they’ve known him, and never once has he ever gotten a ride from James Barnes.

That day, he finds that he’s hoping to see Bucky in the darkroom again. He spends his morning classes thinking about reading comic books late into the night, about the sleepy way Bucky greeted him when he got into the car, the ribbing they went back and forth between them in the treehouse. He’s giddy, excited in a way he hasn’t been in forever, and he doodles in the corners of his notebooks, abstract figures and hands and the bow of familiar lips.

His daydreams do not disappoint. Lunch finds him in his usual spot prepping for his art period, but this time, Bucky’s there too. He’s just checked out a camera and is loading a roll of film into the back when Steve walks into the photography classroom.

“Hey,” Bucky says.

“Hi. What’re you doing here?”

“Getting a head start on next week’s project. I need it.”

“I could help you,” Steve offers, nodding his chin to the rented camera.

He thinks Bucky might get prideful or pissed off, but he gives a great gust of a sigh. “I can’t be _that_ bad…”

“I didn’t wanna say anything, but…”

“Oh, come _on_. That shot?” He points to a black and white, blurred photo that’s been glued to poster board. Steve knows every student is required to present their assignments, no matter how good or bad. “Total money shot.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Not any money shot I wanna see. So… up for a tutorial or what? After school?”

Bucky is, and they agree to meet after class. The next assignment due is all about portraits, and Bucky explains that he has this whole idea of catching Becky unawares -- ”A candid shot, I think, if I can manage to swing it” -- but he still doesn’t have the manual focus down. Steve’s definitely no expert, but, from seeing what Bucky’s shot so far, he knows he can teach him a thing or two. After a lengthy discussion about apertures, he ends up posing for Bucky by the bleachers.

It’s late enough that the football team is running drills on the field; grunts and the thwack of bodies pushing against the sleds carry all the way to where they’re standing.

“You’re a really good model,” Bucky says, snapping a picture of Steve pulling a face. “The camera loves you, baby.”

Steve flips him the bird. “You’re wasting your film.”

“So? I’ll buy another roll.”

“Why not? It’s your money to waste.”

“It’s not a waste. I’m learning a whole lot, Stevie. I gotta do well, and doing well means lots of practice, and lots of practice means a shit ton of pictures.”

“Yeah, pictures of things other than _me_.”

“Have a heart, Rogers. If I don't pass this class, I'm screwed.”

“It’s only photography.”

“Yeah, but I’m gunning for valedictorian. Standings are between me and Nat so far.”

“No shit.”

Bucky grins, but it fades quickly. The camera dangles around his neck. “Yeah. I mean, that baseball scholarship I was banking on isn’t going to happen. I’m good, but I ain’t _that_ good.”

“There’s financial aid and grants,” Steve says, trying for nonchalance. He’s been applying since freshman year for any little thing he might qualify for, but Bucky might not’ve thought of them being that his family has always been middle class and better off -- though he’s sure Bucky has. “Student loans for the worst of it.”

Bucky scrubs at the back of his neck. He looks like he wants to say something -- the space between his eyebrows scrunches together -- but he drops his hand with an easygoing shrug. “Gonna be in debt for the rest of my life, I guess. Wanna get a milkshake or something?”

They have twelve bucks between them and spend it all ordering off the McDonald’s dollar menu. Bucky drives them onto the rolling hill that overlooks the drive-in afterward, the one place that was theirs every summer until it wasn’t, and they park out by the point. They pick their way through the brambles to settle on the rocks that overlook the entire town, three bags of greasy fast food between them. They settle on a cement outcrop, legs dangling over the side.

Bucky shoves a handful of fries in his mouth and asks, “So you play lacrosse now?”

Steve, who’s busy dumping three packets of pepper into his ketchup, cocks an eyebrow at him. “How’d you know that?”

“I have ears. I hear things. Do you know Nat can’t shut up about you?”

“ _Nat?_ As in Natasha Romanoff?” He didn’t know she knew he was even a real person.

“Yeah. She’s been trying to get all her friends to ask you out.”

Steve can’t help but laugh because Bucky _has_ to be joking. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious! She thinks you’re great. I don’t know _why_ …”

“Ha. Um… I’m not really interested in being matched, if you wouldn’t mind passing the word. I haven’t been on a date in years, so.”

“Really? Who was the last?”

“Peggy Carter.”

“The prep school badass. With the lipstick?”

“Mm. She’ll be glad to hear her reputation has staying power.” He sighs wistfully and munches dutifully on his chicken nuggets. It’s been a good afternoon filled with nostalgia, and it’s easy to miss Peggy something fierce in this moment. Especially when this place holds a much sweeter memory. “Actually… Peggy and I had our first kiss right here.”

“Steve!” Bucky laughs. “You dog, this was _our_ spot.”

“As far as I can tell it’s public property.”

“Fair enough.” Bucky nudges Steve with his elbow. He grins. “I still can't believe you kissed Peggy Carter.”

“Well, it was pretty great,” he says, and stuffs another handful of fries in his mouth so he doesn’t have to say anything else for a while. There was a time not so long ago when Peggy _technically_ wasn’t his first and only kiss, and he wonders if Bucky remembers any of it at all. Bucky met a girl named Diane that first Indiana summer. She lived on the apple orchard across town and _she_ was Bucky’s first kiss. Steve’s was a quick peck on the lips when Bucky got home that had them snickering with embarrassed laughter immediately after.

They stay at the outlook for another hour until Steve mentions the loads of homework he still has to complete. Bucky drives them back without complaint and offers to give Steve a ride to school the next day too. “No point in you walking,” he says. “We’re both going to the same place, right?”

Something squirms in Steve’s stomach at the offer -- a swoop that warns him to not fly too close to the sun because it just can’t be that easy, righting things between them, right? But he nods his head anyway, playing at a casualness he certainly doesn’t feel and walks up his porch steps. _Maybe_ , he thinks. _Maybe it can be that easy._

And, for a time, it does seem that way. He finds Bucky waiting for him patiently the next morning, sleepy-eyed and hair mussed like he literally rolled out of bed and stumbled down the stairs, and rides to and from school before habit from then on. 

Soon enough, Steve falls back in with Bucky as easily as he did the very first time. They hang out after school, do homework in Sarah’s kitchen or in the Barnes’ living room like old times. Sometimes they climb up drive-in hill to listen to the latest double picture or to talk about nothing at all, and eventually, he introduces Bucky to the Howlies and Sam.

“Dungeons and Dragons? Never played before, but I’m game,” Bucky says that night, and at Steve’s raised eyebrow adds, “Becky’s really into Catan.”

It gets complicated when Steve realizes there’s only twenty-four hours in a day, and he’s trying to fit everything in at the same time. Dividing his attention between friends and school and work has him feeling like an elastic band, stretched out thin and liable to snap back painfully at any moment. He signs up for the SATs and crunches the prep books in where he can, and dedicates a good hour a day combing the internet for any little obscure scholarship he can find in case financial aid falls through. He still buses tables, maintains his GPA, and tries to be a good son to his mom, and a good friend too. By the end of each week he’s exhausted, and before he knows it, the deadline for his art fair submission is right around the corner and he’s not even close to finishing. He asks Mrs. K if he can take the canvas home with him after school -- he has supplies at home that will work just as well -- and lugs the unfinished painting to the parking lot where Bucky is waiting for him.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, automatically popping the trunk open.

“My art fair thing that’s due next week,” he replies. He tucks the canvas away. “I haven’t procrastinated a day in my life, but… I can’t seem to finish this.”

They get in the car, and Bucky pulls out of the lot. “What’s it supposed to be about?”

“ _Supposed_ to be a still life.” He sighs. “No inspiration.”

“Inspiration?”

“Mm. I know _what_ I want to put down, but my hands aren’t getting with the program. Everything’s off.”

“Steve, I’ve seen with my own two eyes what you’ve called ‘crap’ and it’s leagues better than what I can do. Better than what most of us on this earth could do. You’re too hard on yourself. For a _fact_ I know you’re too hard on yourself.” Bucky hums and Steve sits silent. “There’s a party tonight, if you wanna come. Nat’s throwing it at her dad’s place. I know you wanna finish your painting, but… maybe a distraction would be good…”

Steve turns the idea over. On one hand: do not procrastinate. On the other: tomorrow is just as good as today. His resolve crumbles when Bucky tells him to invite the rest of the gang, so he says _sure, why not,_ and texts out the address Bucky rattles off.

He spends the few hours catching up on homework he’s fairly certain he won’t do if he doesn’t do it _now_ , and dozes on the couch until he feels someone brushing their fingers through his hair. For a brief, heart-stopping second, he thinks _Bucky_ \-- but he blinks his eyes open, and it’s just his mom smiling down at him. A weird edge of disappointment sinks into him, and he tries not to think about why.

“Hi, baby,” she says. “I feel like I haven’t seen you all week. Want to catch a movie and split a pie?”

He sits up, already feeling guilty. He forgot when he made plans with Bucky that his mom’s going back on the night shift next week, that they usually spend the weekend together when her schedules changes around like that. “Yeah, sure, I just gotta text Bucky... he invited me -- _us_ , everyone -- to some party tonight.”

“Oh?”

He flushes. “Yup.”

“Well…” She tugs her hospital lanyard off and tosses it on the coffee table. “Rain check for tomorrow, then?”

“What? Ma, _no._ I can cancel, it’s not a big deal--”

“You must be the only teenager alive wanting to get out of going to a party with their friends. I’ve had a long day. I’m tired, my feet hurt, and I have the next two days off. Promise me you’ll be _safe_ tonight, and if you need a ride, you call me, okay?” She leans down and kisses him on the forehead. “I’m going to eat that ice cream I’ve had in the fridge for forever and marathon Pride and Prejudice.”

“BBC Miniseries?”

“Oh… Steve, _honey_. You already know the answer.”

He meets Bucky at his house, still feeling like he’s _the worst_ for getting a free pass from his mom, but it’s hard to stay down when Bucky opens the door and hooks an arm around his shoulders. His hair is brushed back and he smells a little like cologne, and Steve’s not really sure what to do with all these weird observations. Bucky looks _good._ He always looks good, of course, but -- there’s something about him tonight, casual and clean, that makes Steve remember the late nights he’d spy (there’s really no way to spin it: he was spying) on Buck and Nat out his widow. Jealousy was the chief emotion, and he wrangles the feeling down; deep, deep down.

Bucky, for his part, doesn’t seem to notice Steve’s hesitance at all. He just pulls Steve in closer, impossibly closer, and says, “Let’s get you some inspiration!”

Steve’s not really sure how typical house parties are supposed to go, beyond what he’s seen in movies, but when they drive up Nat’s driveway, he’s not sure he’s ready for what’s in store. There’s already a bunch of people milling around outside, and the music is spilling out the open front door. He rubs his hands on his jeans and then swipes a hand through his hair. He didn’t even _shower_ before he went to Bucky’s -- he brushed his teeth, but that was about it.

“Don’t be nervous,” Bucky says, and he knocks a gentle fist against Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon.”

They walk up together. Everyone greets them -- rather: they greet Bucky -- and Bucky hustles Steve up the stairs and into a base-thumping living room. He squeezes close, hands on Steve’s upper arms, and shouts in his good ear, “I’ll get you a drink.”

“What about you?”

“What?”

He leans in this time. “ _What… about… you?”_

“I’m driving you home tonight, so -- water or coke for me.”

Steve tries not to let it bother him that Bucky saw right through his question -- after all, he was just trying to make sure he _wouldn’t_ have to interrupt his mom’s Mr. Darcy marathon, and settles against the wall, and whips out his cell phone like the crutch it is. He tabs into the group text with Sam, Jim, Dum Dum, and the rest. They promised to come.

He looks up and sees Bucky in the kitchen. He has a red cup in one hand, a water bottle in the other, and he’s talking to two others guys -- and not, seemingly, in any hurry to come back to Steve’s side. 

He scans the room, trying not to drown in the sudden anxiety of being one person in a sea of strangers. The faces are familiar -- most of them are probably from school -- but not anyone he’ll want to approach. Luckily, it’s dark, and most everyone is already clustered off in their own groups; none of them make any moves to include Steve.

He waits patiently until he sees the hostess appear on the stairs. She’s wearing jeans, a tank top and a leather jacket. Her hair is down and curled. _She’s beautiful,_ he thinks, but for some reason -- a ridiculous reason -- he was expecting her to be wearing some skin-tight black dress and stiletto heels, and a frown when she sees him in her home. Instead, she perks up when they catch eyes, and she saunters down the stairs and slips through the crowd towards him.

“Hi there,” she says. “I’m Natasha.”

“Steve.” He sticks his hand out. They shake like they're adults agreeing on a home loan or something instead of teenagers, and he tries not to wonder about the unreadable smirk that plays around her lips. It's weird that he's here, that they've been in the same school for years, and now's the time they're making introductions. “Nice party.”

“Thanks. Bucky said he was bringing you.”

“He did.”

“Sure did. He’s been--”

The song changes into some overloud dubstep thing, and whatever Natasha meant to say is drowned out by what Steve’s hearing aid can’t catch. He tries to read her lips, but settles on smiling and nodding along, hoping that he didn’t just agree to selling his soul to the devil. She brightens again, and squeezes his elbow. “See you then,” he’s able to read, and then she slinks off into the crowd.

 _Weird_ , he thinks, but doesn’t have much time to ponder what transpired. Bucky brings him the drink, and soon enough, the rest of the Howlies stumble in. They break off to dance and play beer pong, and Steve finds the rum-and-diet drink Bucky gave him makes him warm and smiley. He sticks close to Bucky’s side, bumping shoulders as they watch Sam and Nat get into a heated darts match, and follows him outside when it gets a little too hot and smoke-filled inside.

“You okay, Stevie?”

He waves Bucky off, but he sinks into the patio couch, boneless and maybe a little more tipsy than he planned on becoming. A couple is seated together by the pool, and Steve has the passing thought on how _nice_ it would be to kiss someone right now. He almost voices the idea -- except that Bucky’s the only one outside with him, and he doesn’t want him to… to get the _wrong_ idea. “Natasha was nice,” he says.

“She is nice.” Bucky sits down. “Until she’s, y’know, _not._ ”

“She was talking to me earlier. I -- uh, I didn’t hear half of what she was saying,” he admits, motioning to his ear. “Screechy dubstep does wonders for the hard of hearing.”

“Hm. Hope she wasn’t telling you the secrets of the universe or something.”

“Didn’t seem like it. She just said that you brought me.”

“And?”

“And then screechy dubstep.” He knocks his shoe against Bucky’s ankle. “You worried? She have some dirt on you?”

“Nah.” He shrugs, easy nonchalance, and something tugs at Steve’s memory -- a long-forgotten notion that an easygoing Bucky was a Bucky who really, really cared, despite whatever front he was putting on.

“She really didn’t say anything,” he says. “Well. She did, but. I’m sure she’d never _betray your confidence_.”

“You don’t know her.”

“Yeah? Well. I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

“Flag on the play, champ. You’re hanging with me.”

“No… _you’re_ hanging with _me._ I’m the troublemaker, remember?”

There’s a weird moment -- a split-second -- where Steve thinks, _We’re flirting. I’m flirting with Bucky Barnes and I really want to kiss him._ There’s soft lighting outside, and the green-blue glow from the pool simultaneously makes Bucky’s skin an unattractive grey but his eyes impossibly bluer. It’s weirdly romantic is what it is, and he tries not to think about being out here with his childhood best friend; his first kiss; his first hint that he was bisexual. He swallows and sinks even further into the patio chair cushions.

“We can go whenever,” Bucky offers after a moment. “If you want to.”

“I’m having fun. Unless you want to go... in which case, I am having a terrible time.”

He laughs. “No. Good. Let’s stay. I wanted you to have a good time. I mean -- this is your inspiration night.”

Steve looks around for dramatic effect. There’s not much around here that he wants to paint, except maybe the fancy swing set by the tall spruce, but he does feel lighter, looser. He’s sure it has more to do with the alcohol blurring his vision than artistry.

They stay outside for a bit longer, and go back inside after Steve polishes off his drink. He’s skating on the cusp of _too much,_ but he’s not afraid of making an ass out of himself. Bucky’s seen him in far worse situations and circumstances. He tries his hand at beer pong, and actually gets into a lengthy conversation with Natasha when she partners with him. He discovers that she’s kind of a dork and a pop-culture junkie, and she even agrees to join their D&D campaign next Saturday.

The night ends well past two in the morning, and Steve mumbles out an apology when he remembers that Bucky had to deal with him for hours -- _hours_ \-- while stone cold sober. He settles up against the passenger window, half-asleep, and listens to the chatter in the car. Someone thanks _James_ for giving them a ride home -- “DD duties! Gotta love it.” -- and then they’re off around town. One by one, they drop people off, and then Steve’s blinking his eyes open as they roll to a stop in their cul-de-sac, Bucky’s hand warm and gentle on his shoulder.

“We’re back,” he says, and Steve straightens up. He’s got a crick in his neck and he feels like he could pass out for an entire day if he tried, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to hang with Bucky some more. He swallows around the thick lump in his throat. “Can we go up into the tree?” he asks.

“I don’t want you to break your neck.”

He snorts. “Not a no.”

So up into the treehouse they go, Bucky keeping a careful, hovering hand far too close to Steve’s backside for his comfort. When they’re inside, he falls face-down into the musty sleeping bag and takes a lungful which, in hindsight, is a mistake. He turns his head to the side, fighting down the urge to throw up. “We need to wash these.”

“Or get new ones,” Bucky quips and hauls himself over the ledge to settle down next to Steve, and Steve throws caution to the wind and tangles their legs together. 

Despite the cramped space, and them being two teenaged kids, it’s surprisingly comfortable. He folds his arm under his head and gives Bucky a goofy smile. “I’m drunk,” he declares.

Bucky matches his pose, goofy smile and all. “You sure are, bud.”

“ _You_ got me drunk, Buck. Bucky. Do I call you James now?”

“No one calls me Bucky anymore,” he says. He swallows, and he twists away so that he’s staring up at the ceiling. He sighs. “You’re the only one who does still. I kinda miss it.”

“You could always tell people to call you Bucky again.”

“No one likes a self-nicknamer.”

“Well _I_ like you well enough.”

Bucky snorts. “Right.”

The self-derision pricks at the back of Steve’s neck, and he hauls himself up onto his elbows. “I mean it,” he says.

An intense silence passes between them, and Bucky lets out a cracked huff of laughter after a beat. “Alright -- I believe you. God Almighty.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I forgot how persuasive you can be.”

Steve grins. “It’s one of my better traits.”


End file.
